A Gathering in the Garden
The Mortal Plane: Present Day
A punishing dream. The toll taken on the mind was great; a decision had to be made. Yet he could not make one. Yes, give in, or No, and suffer a fate worse than death? He did not know what to decide. Countless thought processes triggered millions of synapses to fire deep within REM sleep. Then; the decision was made. He wakes.
"Wa...Was that a dream?" He rubs his eyes. Fatigue fueled lactic acid strained his body as he struggled to sit up in bed. Sunlight was trickling through the shades of his upscale Manhattan apartment. His phone says it's 10:33 AM on Saturday. He slept through his alarm clock, which isn't unusual, but what is unusual is the tired feeling he still has, despite getting a decent night's sleep. Or so he thought. No messages on his phone must mean nothing important enough happened while he was sleeping. As he gingerly gets out of bed and heads to the toilet, he pauses in front of the bathroom mirror. He proceeds to do what every young adult man who is self conscious about their physical fitness does, and flexes and checks out the various muscles he's been trying to improve since he was in high school. While not a stunning specimen of the male form, he is not by any means pathetic; he stands at a decent five feet ten inches tall, lean muscular frame with below average body fat. He has well kept medium length dark brown hair and a clean shaven face. His blue eyes he inherited from his mother, while his father gave him his celestial nose and rounded chin. He had female attractors for sure, as evident by the several high school flings and several more college relationships. But he remains single today, mostly due to his inability to maintain a sense of commitment for too long. It could be due to his father walking out on him and his mother when he was just a boy, and as the saying goes, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Thankfully for him, his mother was much more financially secure than his father was, and ensured an overall healthy upbringing to the point he could attend college not too far from home, and has successfully started a career in the marketing field of lucrative New York City. It's what's paying for the apartment he lives in, it paid for the cafe racer motorcycle he takes in to work five days out of the week, and soon it could help put a down payment on a home of his very own. He contemplates his success as he raps on his abs and heads to take his morning tinkle. As he pulls his pajama pants down and starts to add to the liquid in the porcelain bowl, he notices something on his lower abdomen. "uh...what the fuck is that?" He says out loud. He knows he didn't drink too much with some of his coworkers the night before, he knows he didn't get any (as evident with the lack of anyone else in his bed), and he certainly knows he isn't dreaming anymore. Nestled between his hips and above his groin, was a tattoo. Not a large tattoo, but about the size and width of a quarter, right above his meat. It was shaped like a triangle with an X going through the middle, and a squiggly looking W at the bottom. Standing there, stunned, our character in question is now contemplating where in the hell he was last night.
His helmet in hand, our mysterious un-named stranger with the dick tattoo heads out of the elevator into the garage of his apartment building. He walks briskly towards his left, looking for the familiar yellow safety vest of the building's garage attendant. "Hey, Marcus! You in there? Hey, what time did I get in last night?" He yells out over the sound of reverberating HVAC units echoing over the concrete walls and ceilings. Marcus looks up. "Oh hey, boss! Is that you yellin? What, you got home drunk? Let me check the cameras, one sec." Marcus laughs, and disappears back behind the wall of monitors in the fortified security hub. "Let's see, unit 14-C...Boss! You arrived at 1:15 AM. You don't look drunk though. That all you need?" The Stranger smiled, and scratched his head with his free hand. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks Marcus, see you later." Walking back into the garage, the stranger approaches his motorcycle. Black frame with carbon fibre tank, with bronze accents and bronze wheels, the bike was pure function with the added benefit of looking and sounding beautiful. The stranger mounts, and starts the ignition, as it rumbles and burbles to life. With the dark helmet on with the dark brown leather bike jacket, The Stranger proceeds to roll through the garage and exits onto the busy streets of Manhattan. Okay, he thinks to himself. One in the morning is not unusual for a Friday night out with coworkers. He accelerates after the light turns green, heading towards his workplace. Today isn't a work day for him, but he does need to go back to his work building to grab some free food in the cafeteria. He has the money to stock his own kitchen with goodies, but he prefers the way the cafeteria at his job makes a mean breakfast burrito. Pushing past the diminishing pain of the retreating lactic acid in his muscles, he zips along the avenues, pushing easily past traffic that would otherwise get in his way if he drove his car. In a trip that would take 20 to half an hour by car or 10 by the _ Train, the quickness of the bike brings the Stranger enjoyment of getting to his workplace in the same time that it takes subway goers, without having to deal with all the ickiness of the New York City subway system. He pulls up to the gated garage, and swipes his keycard, opening the gates. Parking his bike inside, he heads towards the elevator that leads him to the building lobby while removing his helmet. I hope they have lemonade, he thinks. Lemons being good for lactic acid buildup, and obviously he would be ordering his breakfast burrito with extra avocados. He reaches the lobby and waves hello to one of the rotating attendants he hasn't gotten the name of yet. Walking up a quick flight of steps, he reaches the mezzanine, and heads over to the door marked cafeteria. Entering the massive room, he is hit with a wave of smells and sights and sounds that he especially enjoys during his morning routines. People talking amongst themselves, working on code or a presentation while working down a bowl of oatmeal. The sound of the open concept kitchen, knives clanging and plates rattling down a system of conveyor belts to be washed and to be served. Off to the right, there was the custom order menu, where a weekly rotating board of items made its way across an LCD screen with the words Have it any way you like! As he approached, he felt someone tap his shoulder. "Back already?" A female voice this time cuts through the cafeteria chatter like a hot knife through butter. It's his coworker, Evelyn. "Oh hey! No, I'm just here to get breakfast. By the looks of things, you are too." Evelyn, usually business appropriate attire to go with her professional attitude, is wearing form fitting yoga pants and an oversized hoodie. However, her always professional brunette hair done up in a tight french braid bun, is hanging damp and loosely over one shoulder, framed by her wide brimmed black spectacles on a clean olive complexion with a light dusting of freckles. Her almond shaped brown eyes sparkled more than our Stranger's baby blue's ever could. Our stranger is no stranger to Evelyn; the two may be in junior positions, but the two have had this on again off again cavalier attitude with each other. Our stranger knows Evelyn wants him, Evelyn knows he knows. But it's only superficial. Evelyn is a divorcee and is attempting to bounce back from the split that happened two years ago, and has had her sights set on our Stranger ever since. He's done his fair share of playing around, but never at the office, let alone with coworkers. But he lets it slide, only because Evelyn is actually quite cute. And, if the stranger were being honest with himself, he wouldn't mind hooking up with her...if she wasn't the CEO's niece. No, our Stranger would like to keep this job a lot longer than he keeps women in his life. "mmm, not breakfast, but a post workout snack. I got here at 9:30 to use the gym on the 12th floor and just got out of the shower." She flicks her damp hair slightly. "You heading up to the office after?" she asks, now shifting her weight and planting a hand on her hips. Even with the oversized hoodie, our stranger knows Evelyn has a flattering figure, accentuated by the aforementioned yoga pants. She is several inches shorter than he is, yet she commands the most space in a room. He also knows that the office is mostly empty on a Saturday, and this attempt at getting him to crack and have some workplace shenanigans is one of their little games. But unfortunately for us, dear readers, this will not be happening. "No, I just came for my burrito. I think i'm still a bit hungover from last night." He contemplates asking her about his newly acquired ink. "You got hung over? But that wasn't even a big night out. Michael and Lisa didn't even drink that much this time. Even Scott only had a couple rounds. What did you have?" Evelyn asks, curious as to what our Stranger ingested to warrant a hangover excuse to end their little game prematurely. Our stranger raps his fingers on his helmet. That's the thing, my memory got fuzzy around the time I had my second glass of Mezcal, he thought. "I dunno, maybe that Mezcal I had was no bueno. Did you have some?" He asks, and then turns to order his burrito. Evelyn tilts her head, pondering for a moment. "I don't think so. I think I had 2 cosmo's and a Lumumba. Not exactly keen on Mezcal. If I recall, you only had a beer before that. Everything good?" She asks now with a not so subtle look of concern. The stranger finishes paying, and takes his number. "Yeah, everythings fine. Slept through my alarm, felt some muscles burning when I woke. Maybe just a bit too exhausted from that morning's workout. Oh well." He shrugs, telling her mostly the truth. "Oh well is right. Better it happen on Friday instead of Sunday." Evelyn now places her order; PB&J on toasted white bread with a chocolate protein shake. "Speaking of, did you get the new design update to the…" The two chit chat and talk shop while eating their food, oblivious to the fact they already talk like they are an item. A quick pun here, an ironic joke there, the two feel very happy having a semi platonic/flirtatious relationship with one another. Soon enough, their meals were finished, and the two were content with their conversation. Our stranger says his goodbye. Evelyn says hers. The two part. Little did they know, dear readers, that this would be their last weekend that resembled some sense of normalcy.